


After the World Falls Down

by damnslippyplanet



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And it's really hard to keep a cannibal on a leash, But he's really good at making only the promises he wants to keep, Hannibal keeps promises, Living Dead Girl Abigail Hobbs, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surviving the sea was one thing, and surviving each other will be something else entirely.  A year in the life of Hannibal and Will on the run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will knows he made it alive from the sea. He's just not sure whether he's still the person who went in, or what he might be capable of now.

Will spends a lot of time watching his hands, in the glass cage by the sea. For one thing, there’s not much else to do. There are instruments he does not know how to play, dense medical books his still-rattled brain can’t quite settle into, meals to prepare. Stains to scrub. A monster to tend. 

For another, he’s not sure whose hands they are. He’s not sure who went into the sea, or who came out of it, or whether they are the same person. Some of it might be the fall - the whistle of wind in his ears, the breath-stopping thud as they hit the water. Some of it must be only that, and he believes that this wobbly part of his sanity will return to him if he waits patiently and quietly for it. He’s good at waiting patiently and quietly for shy things to come out of the darkness, scenting a friend.

But he’s pretty sure some of who he was is just...gone. Drowned, perhaps, or dashed on the rocks, or perhaps before that it soaked into the ground in the cracks between the stones, along with the blood. Perhaps that last step over the edge used up the last of that man who took it. He remembers with perfect clarity everything about that man. He’s just not sure he is that man anymore, or wants the things that man wanted.

It’s all a blur and one that he’s not sure he is ready to squint at too hard. Not sure he wants it to resolve into a definite shape. Sooner or later it will have to resolve. Life outside these walls will have to resume. The Dragon is in the sea (or most of him is), the cars hidden, but the world will find the glass house and it might be for the best if it is no longer occupied.

He’s not prepared to leave yet, or to be found. Right now the scope of his days is small, simple. The choices to be made are few. The glass has been swept up. The stains on the stone fade with each day’s scrubbing and as long as he’s careful not to reopen his wounds, the gentle activity seems to be good for his aching, bruised body.

His monster took the brunt of the fall, somehow pulled them both out of the sea, won’t say how. Seems damnably amused by the situation. Lies in bed most days, broken bone knitting, tending both their injuries as he can and talking Will through what he can’t do himself. 

They talk a little. Carefully, in voices hoarse at first from coughing up oceans. Not about anything too consequential. The words a dance. 

Not all the wounds they bear are visible or can be stitched up neatly, and they seem to have agreed tacitly that these few days are a moment out of time. A truce. A mending. They are wary of each other, but curious. Attuned perhaps more deeply than they have ever been; perhaps remembering without discussing it that neither of them let go, bodies close, breathing together all the way down into the sea.

Sometimes, Will’s monster sleeps. His sleep appears to be deep and restorative, without nightmares. Will has nightmares, as well as other dreams that should be nightmares but are not. Black, moonlit dreams of sounds that do not bear thinking about in daylight.

Will doesn’t know whether his monster watches over his sleep too, or what he sees if he does. 

The days pass. Wounds mend, reopen, mend again. They will have to move as soon as it is possible to do so. The time is coming to choose which version of himself will step out of the door and into the world beyond this bubble of time.

For now he watches the sea, and keeps house for his monster, and flexes his hands and wonders what they are capable of doing, and to whom. It is chilly but bright in the glass cage and almost possible to believe there is no world outside the one formed by the two of them.

He is not sure how many monsters live in the house now, who holds the cage’s key, or what will emerge when the bubble breaks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their time by the sea can't last forever. A negotiation and a departure.

Truth be told, Hannibal could probably have been out of bed the day before, and it would be wise to be on the road soon. The cliff house is well hidden, purchased by one of his aliases long ago, but there will be people looking and they will find the cars and then the house. Eventually.

Of course, their best profiler is currently in the kitchen clanging pots, so that will slow their efforts. He smirks a bit at that thought. Although Will is going to need knifework lessons if they continue on their way together (and his breath catches for just a moment at the thought that they might not), and the cliff house pantry is not particularly well stocked for an unexpected sojourn, it’s entertaining to be cooked for. A rare pleasure to be cared for. 

But he’s almost always known when it’s time to go, and it’s time to go. He lingers in bed in the morning sunlight a few minutes longer, preparing a space in his memory palace for these past days at the cliff house. The space is adjacent to Abigail’s wing of the palace, but he does not feel the need to walk there today.

Will jumps, startled, when Hannibal emerges from the hallway. Calms quickly and gestures toward the table, and if his fingers suddenly grow a bit white-knuckled on the handle of the knife he’s holding, Hannibal declines to comment and Will perhaps is not even aware. 

“Breakfast will be ready in a minute. Sit. You’re in no condition to take over in here yet.”

Hannibal sits, quiet and companionable, hands visible, no sudden moves, something close to non-threatening. He breathes in the smell of the sea air through the broken window, mingled with cooking smells. His arm aches in its sling, jarred with his movement. He notes another empty wine bottle that wasn’t there when he went to sleep the night before, wonders how late Will was awake. Simultaneously notes that the drinking will bear watching, and is glad that some of the cliff house wine cellar is being appreciated before the remainder is buried in an FBI evidence storage locker.

Will’s rumpled, not long out of bed himself, also moving stiffly and perhaps a bit the worse for the bottle of wine. Hannibal notes the progress of Will’s cheek wound with a touch of regret. Not so much for the scar itself - Will’s face has never been the most interesting thing about him - but for how obvious it will be. Hard to hide as they travel. Facial hair should hide the worst of it, but he wishes he’d been in a state to do his best work on the stitches.

Will brings breakfast to the table. They eat slowly, talk little, and if they are both thinking of their first breakfast together, they don’t discuss it.

Hannibal waits until breakfast is done, then: “I need you, Will.”

Will quirks an eyebrow, takes a breath, breaks eye contact to look out at the sea. His voice is calm as he answers, “So it’s time to leave, then.”

“It’s time for me to leave. Jack will find this place soon. If you want to stay here you can. Spin him whatever story you wish to explain all this.” Hannibal nods toward the broken window, the patio outside where the bloodstain is not entirely erased. “I don’t intend to turn myself in again, but if I am caught one day, I won’t contradict your fairytale.”

Will continues to look determinedly out in the distance and Hannibal is suddenly not entirely sure they will leave together after all. The usual sense of mingled pleasure at Will’s capability to surprise him, and discomfort at being something other than in complete control, nags at the edges of his mind. Finally Will speaks, and when he does, his voice is less controlled than his face, and Hannibal knows instantly that it’s going to be all right. 

“That life is over. I think we both know that. I don’t know what’s next, but I don’t think it’s me explaining the past week to Jack Crawford.” He meets Hannibal’s eyes briefly, then flicks his gaze down to the arm. “Also, you need a driver.”

Hannibal chuckles a little, can barely suppress a real laugh of relief and joy. He feels a little like Will must, taming his feral dogs. Slowly, cautiously, not too much too soon. He nods. “I’ve driven with one arm before but it’s not enjoyable. I propose we travel together for a while. I have other places, other identities. You’ll be safer with me.”

Their eyes meet, then, and neither of them can quite help but smile at the incongruity of that statement. Safer, with Hannibal Lecter. Both of them stabbed, half-drowned, not entirely sane, having tried to kill each other so many times they’ve given up keeping score. But Will can’t quite deny the statement, either, and he nods. 

The rest is just negotiating details. A bit of theater Will is performing with himself as the only audience, to avoid facing how little convincing he actually needs. Hannibal plays his part in the play willingly; he’s already won the only concession he needed.

They agree: No one else dies, for now. Molly and Walter are not to be touched, ever, which is fine - Hannibal is curious about them but it is a fair trade. He feels no need to share the fact that Bedelia and Alana, and perhaps Margot and the child, are already dead in his mind and thus not part of this treaty. They are promises that will be kept, but he is a patient monster. There is time.

Will helps him pack a few things, since the injured arm is tricky. Will is less jumpy when he has a task, and when he is helpful. This is interesting information to be stored away for later consideration. They will have to walk a way to the car, both injured, so they pack light. “Light” means different things to them and eventually Hannibal allows Will to convince him that the wine cellar has to be left to the FBI. He slips one or two of the best vintages into his bag anyway, when Will is in the other room throwing his own few things into a bag. 

Hannibal makes one or two other small arrangements before they leave, unnoticed by Will. He’s a little sad that he can’t see what Jack will think of his gifts, but not terribly so. He hopes to ask Jack about them in person one day.

The sun is high and warm by the time they leave the cliff house. Will turns to look back at the house, at the sea, and for once Hannibal would not venture even a guess as to what he is thinking. But he turns resolutely away from the site of his rebirth, and they set off down the path together.

Hannibal doesn’t need to look back. Every moment of the past several days is stored away in the memory palace. He expects to visit them often in the weeks to come, but for now there is work to be done.

It’s going to be a beautiful day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an interlude, a storm, a bargain struck, and tea.

Will collapses onto the sofa with a groan, legs suddenly jelly under him as exhaustion catches up. He could fall asleep right there and very well might.

Hannibal surrenders to exhaustion and gravity himself, dropping into a nearby chair with a sigh. “Do make yourself comfortable, Will.” It’s probably sarcasm, but Will's too tired to parse Hannibal's inscrutable vocal patterns tonight.

The apartment is more sleek and modern than Hannibal's Baltimore home or the cliff house, but as Will looks around at what he can see without making any actual effort to lift his head, he sees a variation on what he’s coming to recognize as Hannibal’s version of “home.” The kitchen is large and open, he can practically smell antique book leather from across the room, and he’s pretty sure he sees the corner of a piano peeking out from an adjoining room.

He covers his eyes with his arm to block out the lamp light. “Maybe next time you should downsize the kitchen and skip the piano. Buy some sweatpants and take-out. They’ll never recognize you.”

Hannibal shrugs, wincing as the movement pulls at his injured arm. “I can manage without the piano, but a life of delivery pizza is not worth living. We’ll choose the next place together but my kitchen is not negotiable.” 

Hannibal says “we” so casually, as if he’s already envisioned the place they’ll end up together, and Will suddenly knows that he has, many times. Will can’t imagine the hideaway that could contain both of them. A cozy suburb, no piano but a gorgeous gas range in the kitchen, workbench for him in the garage, a quiet life where they only murder people on alternate Sundays? Perhaps he’ll dye his hair blonde and Hannibal will take to wearing a giant false mustache.

It’s the last mental image, combined with weariness and adrenaline and recent blood loss and the abandonment of his entire life to follow Hannibal Lecter to Canada, that does him in. Will’s suddenly laughing maybe harder than he’s ever laughed in his life, and he doesn’t even realize at first when the laughter becomes hysterics or when he starts to shake and gasp for breath.

He doesn’t hear Hannibal move toward him, and he doesn’t intentionally slide over to make room on the sofa. He’s just reaching out for anything at hand that might keep him from falling completely off the edge of the world, and what’s there is Hannibal. Ludicrous as the idea of his perching delicately anywhere is, Will’s monster perches on the edge of the sofa and doesn’t try to make Will explain himself or promise him that everything will be okay. He just produces a handkerchief from god knows where, places a warm solid hand on Will’s shoulder, and stays there with him. Eventually the storm passes through Will and out of him, leaving him so exhausted and hollow that he falls asleep before he can even get around to feeling embarrassed.

He wakes in the morning still clutching the handkerchief, shoes off, a blanket laid over his shoulders. Hannibal’s back in the armchair, asleep. Will wonders if he was too tired to move to the bedroom, or if he was watching over Will in the night. 

It’s the first night he’s slept straight through since the night they died together, and whether it’s that or his outburst, Will feels different this morning. Last night he felt hollow. Now he feels empty, which isn’t at all the same thing. He feels as ready as he will ever be to be filled with something new. He has no desire to move just yet. He lies still, sorting through memories of the life he threw away when he pulled them both into the sea. He holds apart a place in his memories for some things too precious to leave behind, and he sets other parts of himself aside, to be left here when they move on. His goodbyes said, if only in his own heart instead of to the people who should hear them, he feels at peace. 

By the time Hannibal wakes up, Will has found some tea and he brings two steaming mugs into the living area. He holds one out to his monster, who doesn’t look terribly monstrous at the moment, hair sticking up, blinking sleepily around the apartment. “Hey. Good morning. I couldn’t find any coffee, but this might be better than nothing. I'm sorry that I got a little unhinged last night. I’m not having the world’s most normal week,” he says ruefully.

Hannibal sits up a little straighter, takes the mug and inhales the steam deeply before speaking. “Good morning, Will. Thank you. I’d like to think we’re past apologies. You’re actually holding up remarkably well; I’d be more worried about you if you weren’t just a little unhinged at the moment.”

Will chooses his next words carefully. “I’m feeling better this morning. I’ve been awake for a while thinking over our situation."

"It's always so busy in your head Will. I'd like to hear more about what goes on in there some day." It’s sincere but only half attentive; Hannibal is still waking up.

“I’ll tell you about parts of it. The rest…” Will sits down, sips at his drink, thinks about Molly. “I’m not going to be your creature, not like Abigail was." He almost manages to keep his voice from wobbling when he said Abigail's name. "Some of the rooms in my memory are off limits to you.”

Hannibal nods, as neutrally as if they were discussing the weather. “I would expect nothing less. You are not Abigail. You are unique in my world, Will. But whatever you do wish to share, I would gladly hear.”

Will takes a deep breath before plunging ahead. He's not sure whether to press his luck, but the rest of the conversation needs to be had before they get in any deeper. If he’s going to walk away, or provoke Hannibal into killing him after all, it may as well be now when he’s in this state of strange clarity and peace. He puts the mug down, picks it up, stares intently into it. “If we’re going to be travelling together, there’ll be time for stories. But before we get any further into this, we need an understanding. We need to talk about what happened with Francis. I won’t do that again.”

"The part where we killed him? Or the part where you killed us?" Again, there's no inflection in the voice, no hint that they are talking about anything consequential.

"I won't do either again. But I meant what we did to Francis. I won't do that to anyone else."

A keen glance. Hannibal’s wide awake now, on full alert. “You’ll do what you want, and I’d expect nothing less, but don’t tell me it’s because you didn’t like it. We’re past that now, too, aren’t we?”

Well. No one’s stabbed anyone yet, so maybe they’ll get through this conversation without bloodshed. “I hope so. I think honesty might be the only way you and I are going to survive each other. If nothing else, it would be a refreshing change. I won’t say...” Will forces himself to make eye contact and he’s suddenly lost for a long moment, voice trailing off, eyes wide, breath a bit short. He’s back on the cliff’s edge, hands shining black, meeting his own bloodied reflection and the light from the moon in Hannibal’s eyes.

It’s a small mercy that Will doesn’t know how long his entranced moment lasts, or how avidly Hannibal drinks in the look on his face, as if it must feed him for a long time to come while the monster in him hibernates. Hannibal doesn’t move or do anything to break the moment, barely breathes, and eventually Will snaps back to the present and continues as if he hadn’t left off at all. “I won’t say I didn’t like it. You know how it was. For both of us. But I don’t want to become that, and if you’re doing...what you do...and I’m with you, I don’t know if I can stop myself. So I’m asking you to stop. For me.”

Hannibal’s features go blank for several seconds, an unreadable mask, and Will’s empathy is no help this time in guessing what the response may be. His monster has gone someplace even his empathy can’t follow.

Finally, unexpectedly, Hannibal smiles. It’s a discomfiting smile, to say the least. All the alert tension suddenly flows out of his body, and he relaxes back into his chair, boneless as a cat. Will has an uneasy feeling that he’s the mouse. 

“I have a counter-proposition for you. What would you say to this: I won’t so much as harm a fly while we travel together - until you ask me to.”

Will had thought of a few different ways this conversation might go, but this direction wasn't on the list, and he's taken aback. He can almost hear the splintering as his morning's clarity shatters around him. “I won’t ask you. I’m done with that, Hannibal.”

“I will need something else to amuse me, if I am not to have my accustomed freedom of pastimes. Watching you not ask will keep me entertained for a long time, I think.”

“I’m telling you now that I won’t ask. Let’s not have any misunderstandings about this. So...you won’t kill again, if we leave together.” This conversation is spiraling out of Will’s grasp faster than he can ride it, but he remembers the way Hannibal looked at him that night, the moment before they took down Francis Dolarhyde, and he knows he’s not without power in this arrangement. “And our previous agreement stands. Molly and Walter - you will never touch them. Never send anyone else to touch them. Ever. Even if I leave. Even if you kill me.”

Hannibal considers for a moment, with the gravity the situation demands. “Those are the terms, yes. And I keep my promises.” Suddenly formal, he holds out a hand.

Will doesn’t quite know what to do except take the offered hand. The deal is struck. He wonders how soon he’ll find out its true price.

Hannibal holds on a moment longer than necessary, catches and hold’s Will’s gaze. “In the spirit of our newfound honesty, I do need to tell you - I believe you will ask, eventually. Until then I’ll be, what was it you said? Your creature?” He lets go of Will’s hand but the sensation of his fingers’ pressure lingers a moment. “I’ll be your creature to command or not. For a while. But you’ll turn me loose sooner or later. I hope we’ll run together when that day comes.”

Hannibal stands and stretches his good arm. He looks positively cheerful all of a sudden as he heads for the hallway that leads to the rest of the apartment. “I’ll take the first shower, and then I will make our travel arrangements while you’re getting cleaned up. I’m sorry I didn’t have things ready, but I wasn’t anticipating a prison break, a Dragon slaying, and a midnight swim this week. You’ll have to let me know in advance next time you’re planning this much fun for us.”

He’s off down the hall before Will can think of anything to say in response. Will’s not quite sure, but he thinks he might hear Hannibal humming a cheery tune for a moment before the bathroom door swings shut, leaving Will alone with a rapidly cooling cup of tea and a fond memory of half an hour ago, when everything seemed simple.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will buys a boat, Hannibal buys cheese, and also Will tries really hard not to kill anyone.

The most surprising thing about the sex, when it happens, is how unsurprising it is. It turns out to be more a new step in a dance they were already doing, than a new dance altogether.

But that all comes much later.

The first month after they arrive in Argentina is a frenzy of activity. They find a nondescript apartment to stay in for a couple of weeks while Hannibal does things with money and false identities that Will has no desire to understand. House hunting is tricky, for two solitary creatures with very different ideas of what a home should be, but they eventually find a villa with plenty of space for two, a kitchen, a workspace, river access and a small private dock. They need clothes, furniture, books, tools, Will needs to find and befriend every stray dog in town - they are so busy neither of them even notices the full moon. 

The second month, Hannibal starts to position himself for a job at the university (noting without rancor that it would be much easier if Will would just consider asking him to kill someone and thereby free up a position), and Will acquires a badly neglected sailboat and starts accumulating the necessary supplies to restore it. Hannibal considers pointing out that they can easily afford a newer and nicer one, but it seems to do Will good to be busy. Hannibal notices that the nights the moon approaches full, Will is a bit more restless, distracted, prone to staring out the window. He makes a mental note to watch for the pattern the next month.

The third month, Will sets to work on the sailboat in earnest. He makes Hannibal help, mostly in anticipation of the delight of seeing him be inexpert at something, and gets annoyed when he takes to the work easily and well. They work companionably together in the evenings, sanding and scraping and varnishing, and it provides a good opportunity to observe Will at dusk. As the moon grows larger and brighter each night, Will’s eyes are drawn to it more often and he loses the thread of conversations. He absently touches the healing scar on his cheek. Hannibal’s certain now, and pleased. He wonders idly whether Will is always going to be a moonlight killer, pressed permanently into that particular shape by the intensity of that night on the cliff, or whether there are other phases yet to come. He makes excuses for them to linger outdoors into the evening, long after the light is too far gone for the work on the boat to be any good. He’s never had the chance to watch someone’s becoming this way before, to be part of it every day. The maddening slowness of it, Will’s struggle against it, his own promise to wait until Will catches up to where he already knows this will end, are a delightful and interesting torture.

The fourth month, Hannibal begins to lecture at the University and Will gets blind drunk every night for a week surrounding the full moon. The liquor loosens his tongue entertainingly and he tells stories about his childhood, his teaching, cases he worked on - everything but how he spent his time when Hannibal was imprisoned. On that subject, the doors of his mind are firmly locked and whiskey does not appear to be the key. On the last night, he’s so unsteady on his feet that Hannibal has to walk him to his room to be sure he doesn’t pass out in the hallway. He deposits Will on the bed fully dressed, draws a blanket over him, leaves a glass of water on the bedside. He’s about to leave the room when Will sits up and clutches at his arm, eyes wide and dark - whatever he’s looking at, it’s nothing in the room. “It was beautiful, wasn’t it? I didn’t imagine it.” He assures Will that it was beautiful, that it can be beautiful again anytime Will says the word, and eventually Will sleeps. They don’t speak of it the next day and Hannibal isn’t sure whether Will remembers any of it, but he notes that Will doesn’t touch another drop of alcohol for the next two weeks.

The fifth month, Hannibal becomes annoyed with the quality of the cheese at the local market and drags Will along on trips to every market and small farm in a two-hour radius, eventually settling on a particular dairy that makes an excellent sardo. Will is still working on the boat but he also takes up running. Sometimes Hannibal watches him from the window as he sets off down the street. Will runs like someone being chased. He runs as if he could escape his own shadow with enough effort. He runs but he comes home to Hannibal, drenched in sweat and trembling, barely able to stand. He's pushing himself too hard. Hannibal doesn't try to stop him. On the full moon nights, Will runs even longer and harder than on the other days, runs himself into exhaustion, tumbles into bed when the sky has barely darkened and sleeps a troubled sleep with his curtains shut tight against the moonlight. Hannibal eats alone on these evenings, light meals, slicing fruit and cheeses one bite at a time, humming softly, walking among his memories. He imagines who he might kill now were he not willingly leashed. He makes lists, imagines scenarios, roams the silent house like a ghost or a faithful watchdog. 

In the sixth month, Will finishes the boat and they take to sailing. Will fishes; Hannibal basks in the sun like a lion and plans dinners around whatever Will catches. It’s a good month, and Hannibal considers whether they might spend some time at sea if they find themselves needing to move again. As the moon grows rounder in the sky, Will becomes somehow both quieter and more agitated. He paces in the evenings. Hannibal brings up the Red Dragon twice; Will doesn’t take the conversational bait but also doesn’t flinch as he would have even a few months earlier. Hannibal is pleased with Will’s progress and unsurprised when the sleepwalking begins. He pads through the house after Will in his bare feet so as not to wake him, watches to ensure he comes to no harm. Will ends up on the second floor balcony, eyes open but unseeing, hands tight on the railing, breathing heavily. Hannibal leans against the wall silently, observes the fall of the moonlight on Will’s tanned skin with its variety of interesting scars. Eventually Will comes back inside of his own volition, stumbles back to bed. Hannibal does not sleep the remainder of that night; he sketches until dawn. Some of the sketches are the full scene of Will on the balcony. Some are just the scars.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will has a heart-to-heart with Abigail, and Hannibal for once does not know everything.

It’s in the seventh month that Will decides he needs new tactics. Something about just knowing he _can_ turn Hannibal loose to kill at any time makes it impossible not to think about doing it. It's the old "don't think about an elephant" game except the elephant is the very specific feel of a knife sliding through skin and muscle and grinding to a halt against bone.

Exhausting himself to the brink of collapse didn’t work, drinking didn’t work, and pretending the desire isn't there isn't working either. Therapy, for a variety of reasons, is not on the menu. The longing to re-experience the ecstasy he felt on the cliffside isn’t going away. He begins to think that facing it head-on may be the only option. Resisting the dark impulse is what he’s asked of Hannibal, after all, and he should ask no less of himself. Maybe if he wants it hard enough, he can stare down the moon and shake off the spell it seems to cast on him since the cliff house, muddying his better intentions and heating his blood so he can't think straight.

On the first night, Will takes a book and a single glass of whiskey out to the balcony. He watches the river for a while, then opens up his book and pretends he might read. He reads the page four times without remembering a word and then lowers his head into his hands. He takes long, slow, intentional breaths. He thinks about Walter, and about Abigail. He remembers the warmth and stickiness and the _smell_ of Francis Dolarhyde's blood on his hands.

Will sits outside for a long time, playing out the scenario to its conclusion. He imagines giving himself permission to kill again. He imagines granting Hannibal permission to do the same, unclipping the fragile leash by which he holds a captive monster. He knows that with a single question he can stop all of this agonizing. It would be glorious while it lasted. They would burn themselves down together and take parts of the world with them, and he's afraid it might be worth the consequences.

Will faces off against the moon until he's absolutely sure he can hold out for one more night. He may burn the world down yet but it's not going to be this evening. He raises a tiny ironic toast to the moon, drains the glass, goes inside, tosses and turns fitfully in a dream of black feathers and bright flames and dragons with the eyes of Francis Dolarhyde.

On the second night, he goes to bed early, curtains shut tight against the night. He doesn’t sleep. His fingers hurt from clenching the blankets. Will goes to the river in his mind where he senses Abigail will be waiting. They talk for a long time. He tells her again about the cliff house, lingering on the details. They've talked about this before but she wants to hear it again every time he meets her in his memory palace. She's perpetually on the edge of adulthood in his memories, but always still part-child, the daughter of his heart, and like any child she wants to hear a beloved bedtime story. She just happens to have been twisted enough by Will's monster that her favorite bedtime story is blood and pain.

It's dusk by the river all the time now, a liminal space where the tormenting moon never fully penetrates but also never fully leaves. In the half-light Abigail's wide-eyed face is luminously beautiful despite or because of the slow drip of her own blood down her cheek. Will knows that the blood is illusory, and knows with equal certainty that if he touches her and then touches his finger to his lips, he will taste copper and salt. This would once have made him worry for his sanity, but he's learning to live in dualities and contradictions. He's alive and dead, why shouldn't she be?

When Abigail leaves to go wherever she goes when she is not with him, Will steps out of the river and back onto the banks of his conscious mind. He reminds himself over and over again that if he ever puts down the leash, there will be more Abigails.

On the third night, defenses worn thin after months of fighting the moon and his ghost daughter and his own desires, Will goes to Hannibal.

It’s nearly midnight and Hannibal is in bed, reading by a single dim light. Will sees the tension in his frame and is instantly certain that Hannibal hasn’t turned a page of that book in hours. He's just been waiting, listening for Will's footsteps.

Will takes a step into the room. Two steps. It feels like he’s being drawn toward Hannibal with no volition of his own, but he knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn't let himself pretend otherwise. _Honesty is how you'll survive_ , he reminds himself.

Hannibal lays the book aside. His curtains are wide open, his bed flooded in moonlight. “It’s late, Will. Did you want something from me?” He looks smug, eyes bright. He looks like he knows exactly what is about to happen. He looks certain he’s about to be turned loose on the world again, and Will wouldn’t be surprised to find that Hannibal already has a list prepared. He probably already knows what the first menu will be. He probably has a guest list. There may be place cards involved.

“Yes. I need you.” He feels the echoes of past conversations crashing around them.

“You only ever need to ask, Will. What can I do for you?”

Will swallows, hard. “I’m not asking you to kill anyone. I told you I wouldn’t ask that and I still mean it.”

That does startle Hannibal, and there's a brief tightening around the mouth, a tilt of the head. He’s just lost the script and his dinner plans at the same time, and for a moment he looks something like vulnerable.

Will takes the last step and is at the bedside. He takes off his glasses as he speaks, folds the earpieces shut, places them precisely on the table at the base of the lamp. The motions are deliberate and controlled; his voice is not. “I need you to make me forget how much I _want_ to ask you to kill someone with me. Help me forget for a night. Please.”

He needs to make the first move, initiating the kiss, before Hannibal quite understands or believes what he’s being asked and pulls Will down to him, into the moonlight. But for the rest of that long night neither of them thinks about blood or killing at all.


	6. Chapter 6

In the eighth month, neither of them even notices the moon. They barely recognize the existence of the planet they're on, much less its satellite. As when they first arrived in Argentina to set up new lives, there is a new reality to adjust to and it pushes everything else out. In some ways they were always coming to this place, but knowing it, and each knowing that the other knows it, changes everything. The air around them feels charged even in the simplest moments of their days.

That first night is bruising, hard and frantic. They cling to each other gasping as if they’re still fighting their way back from the sea, breaking the surface for air, pulled under again by a current of need stronger than either of them. This time Hannibal has no inclination to save either of them from the undertow or from themselves, and Will's the one who pushed them over the edge, once again, and who desperately needs to have every thought driven from his head. They both let the current take them where it will.

When dawn arrives they've exhausted, if not their imaginations, then the limits of their energy, and the waves wash them up on the shore of Hannibal's bed. They come back to themselves spent, aching, damp with sweat, pressed skin to skin as if they could become a single person. Or a single monster.

They finally lie still in the first rays of the sun, catching their breath, considering each other. It's a delicate moment balanced on the point of everything that has come before. It could go wrong so many different ways. Any move could break the teacup far beyond Hannibal's repair.

Finally Will seems to come to some sort of internal decision. He stretches languidly and rubs a hand through the disaster that is his morning hair, even more spectacularly tousled than on most mornings, given the exertions of the preceding hours. "We probably should have done that years ago. Might have saved a lot of people a lot of damage, including ourselves."

Hannibal pulls together what bits of his self-possession he can summon. It's not as easy as usual. He feels undone. Sex is nothing new and it's an enjoyable enough pastime, but this time he feels as if he's been stripped of both the person suit and the monster suit, and that's completely new. It's a disconcerting turn of events, to be considered later once he's absolutely sure that Will isn't going to run. For now he considers his words carefully, aware that this could still end very, very badly. "Events can't be forced before their time. All my efforts to the contrary, the universe persists in running in only one direction. But we're here now."

He touches Will very gently on the unscarred side of his face. He doesn’t quite believe yet that this is allowed, that a place in the universe has been made for this morning. But Will leans into the touch, half-closes his eyes, smiles a disarmingly sweet smile that Hannibal hasn't seen before in all the months they've shared their lives. The universe aligns itself perfectly and holds the moment. Nothing shatters and everything is permitted.

They don't make love again that morning, and they don't spend much time together that day. They each retreat into their solitary pursuits, giving themselves time to process the night's events. But that night Will appears again at Hannibal's door even though the moon is waning and his bloodlust with it. Hannibal is waiting and his heart, underused organ that it is, makes itself known with a quick thump when he sees that smile again. He briefly considers tracking down and killing anyone else who's ever seen this lover's smile so it will be only his. He's only seen it twice and already knows he will spend the rest of whatever time he has with Will trying to earn it again. But there's a promise to keep, so a possessive murder spree will have to wait until he's unleashed.

That first night’s raw need fades in the following days. On other nights there is time for slower pleasures, for discovery and gentleness. There's time to learn that extreme empathy has uses other than cruelty, and that it is in fact possible to make Hannibal Lecter lose his trademark composure altogether. There's time for Hannibal to find a variety of different ways to earn that smile.

Hannibal's memory palace expands at an unprecedented pace. Whole wings spring up overnight.

Once, in what Will notes half seriously may be the greatest compliment he's ever gotten, Hannibal lets the roast burn rather than disentangle himself from Will. They eventually do make it into the kitchen, determine the dinner is unsalvageable, consider going out, and decide to go back to bed instead. They don't make it as far as the bedroom. Rug burns are involved. Will feeds the burnt dinner to the neighborhood strays the next day and Hannibal starts making meals that are more forgiving of a very easily distracted cook and sous chef.

After the second week, by mutual consent, they move Will’s belongings into the larger bedroom and turn his old room into a study. Will institutes a "no lectures about the sexual practices of ancient cultures in bed" rule. Hannibal switches to reciting filthy Italian poetry. Will starts studying Italian to keep up; his accent leaves something to be desired but he mimics Hannibal's cadences with uncanny accuracy. The boundaries between their minds and bodies are growing blurrier all the time.

Hannibal is as happy as he's ever been. He suspects that against all odds, Will is, too. He’s still curious about the rest of Will’s becoming but he’s less eager to hurry it; the present is too enjoyable to rush the future. Nonetheless, twice, as Will lies next to him, drowsy and sated, Hannibal repeats his offer to kill for Will. Will mumbles “No means no, Hannibal,” and nestles closer against his monster as he drifts into sleep.

Will sleeps well now. There are no nightmares and no sleepwalking. When he wakes he knows exactly where he is and who he’s with, and that he is as safe as their precarious life-after-death will ever allow.

In the ninth month, on an endless rainy Saturday, Hannibal asks one too many questions in that therapist’s “how-does-that-make-you-feel-Will?” tone of voice that he still sometimes slips into from force of habit. In self-defense, Will invents a new game. He calls it “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours” but Hannibal insists on calling it _quid pro quo_ in order to maintain “a little dignity please, Will.” In the new game, Hannibal can ask his questions, but Will gets to ask a question for each one he answers. Honesty is required and in some ways the game involves more nakedness than their other pastimes.

The game turns out to be more absorbing than either of them had expected from an amusement to while away a rainy afternoon. It becomes a regular feature of their conversations. Will and Hannibal spend long hours asking and answering, slipping further into each other’s skins, in bed and out of it. They pass the nights of the ninth full moon this way, sleepless together, telling stories.


	7. Chapter 7

When Will steps into the river of his mind in the tenth month of his new life, Abigail is sitting on the banks, kicking her feet in the water. She looks lonely. Four thoughts cross his mind in quick succession: _I’ve been neglecting her; She’s a figment of my imagination and can’t get lonely or be neglected; We could make a friend for her; I am losing my grip and it wasn’t very tight to start with._

He sits down next to her, peels off his own socks and shoes, and dangles his feet into the current too. “Hi, Abigail.”

“Hey, Will. You haven’t been here in a while.” She waves. There’s a rivulet of blood on her hand. Will’s not entirely sure why she’s always bleeding but never in pain; he knows that he creates her but she is nonetheless a mystery to him. Possibly it’s just that seeing her in pain might break him.

“I’m sorry Abigail. It’s just that I usually talk to you at night and--”

“I know,” she cuts in. “You’re not sleeping alone these days. I guess it probably freaks people out if their boyfriends are lying around talking to imaginary dead girls, huh? I remember from when you moved in with Molly.” She shrugs and splashes a bit, startling a fish. “It’s okay. I’m glad. You don’t do so well when you’re alone; things get dark and weird in here. It’s better now. I talk to the Wendigo sometimes. It seems like he’s around more lately.”

He raises an eyebrow at that and considers asking. He can’t imagine what Abigail and the shadow-monster from the edges of his consciousness could possibly have to say to each other. He decides he’s not sure he wants to know that parts of his brain he considered separate meet and carry on conversations when he’s not there. He’d prefer to imagine there are some boundaries, somewhere in his life, that are not proving disturbingly permeable.

He hands Abigail a small notebook and she looks up questioningly. “I kind of didn’t know you could bring things in here that weren’t already here.”

“I didn’t either, but it turns out there are a lot of things I didn’t know about myself. This seemed worth trying. I could use your help with a project.”

“Okay, but if you can do this, next time I want you to bring me ice cream and a pony.”

His heart breaks a little bit and he touches her hair, would fold her into his arms if he thought she’d let him. “I’d bring you anything you asked for if I could. I’ll give it a try. But I’m not sure I can bring in anything that doesn’t exist in my real life.”

“So this is real, then.” She flips open the notebook to a random page. It’s a torn-out newspaper article with ragged edges. He’s underlined a few words. She flips backward and forward. More articles, some scribbled notes. They all seem to be local stories, mostly unsolved crimes, from the past few months. “You’re collecting murders. You made me a crazy murder scrapbook. I’m not sure that’s your healthiest life choice right now, to be honest.”

“The last time I tried to make a healthy life choice, I fell off a cliff.” He takes his glasses off and presses his fingers into his temples. There’s a dull throbbing that’s been there on and off, since he first heard about this string of murders earlier in the month. “Think of this as a game. I need to stay sharp; the FBI is still looking for us and I can’t get careless. I started hearing these stories about unsolved crimes and once I started reading the papers… There’s something here, some kind of pattern. I can almost taste it but I can’t quite see it. I think you can help me.”

Abigail closes the notebook, taps the cover, looks at him thoughtfully. “You remember that I’m dead, right? I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

She’s so matter-of-fact about it. He tries to match her courage. “It’s okay. Most of my favorite people have died at least once. But I really do think there’s something here, and I think I know it, and I just can’t quite get to the part of me that can figure it out. I need to talk it out with someone and I can’t do it with Hannibal. He’ll think this means something it doesn’t. He won’t understand it’s a game.”

She touches him and he startles. “Will. _Is_ it a game, really?” 

And that’s the question, isn’t it? One of the benefits of having a ghost girl living in your head is that she mirrors back to you the parts of yourself you most want to believe in. 

If Will can convince Abigail that it’s a game, then it will be only that. He wants to find this killer for the sheer joy of finding the pattern, and to keep his profiling skills sharp should they be needed to stay ahead of the FBI. Nothing more than that. If Abigail believes that it will be true, and he won’t have to do anything with the solution to the puzzle once he has it.

Even with his dead adopted daughter, Will isn’t great at eye contact, but he forces it this time. He looks her straight in the eye and puts every ounce of sincerity he has into the words, trying to make them true: “It’s just a game, and a way to practice. And a reason for me to come and see you more. I miss you when I don’t come here.”

She looks troubled for a moment but then her features relax into a smile. “I miss you, too. Okay. I’ll help you if I can. Where do we start?” She splashes again, pleased with the game, and opens the notebook to the first article. “Pretend I don’t know anything about this stuff. Pretend I’m not a killer.”

Her smile is dazzling as she says it, untroubled as the glassy river where the ripples from her splashing are already fading to nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

In the eleventh month, Will starts going out for runs at odd hours of the day and night. He’s distracted, a little jumpy. Hannibal keeps walking into rooms to find Will in mid-reverie, lost somewhere in memories where Hannibal can’t follow him.

He doesn’t think of himself as a jealous person, but he’s startled to find he’s jealous of whoever or whatever is taking Will away. It does occur to him that Will may have finally tired of life on the run. Maybe he’s preparing to leave. Maybe he’s preparing to turn himself or Hannibal in. Maybe he’s looking for another cliff to pull them both over. 

Nothing seems to have happened that would cause such a change of heart, but then he’s been wrong about Will before. He checks his emergency evacuation bag, just in case. Money, papers, a change of clothing; if he leaves he’ll take surprisingly little with him. He can be gone in no time, into a different life. He tries not to think about how empty that solitary life would feel.

Hannibal is so distracted by Will’s elusiveness that he doesn’t notice when the eleventh full moon is upon them, until Will wakes him late in the night with a sharp nip of teeth on Hannibal’s neck.

Hannibal comes to alertness immediately, and manages to halt his instincts about half a second before his hands reach out to snap the neck of his attacker. “Will. You can’t DO that. It’s not safe.” He snaps on the light and halts when he gets a good look at Will.

Will’s pupils are wide and dark. He looks aroused. He looks high. He looks beautiful. He’s wearing dark inconspicuous clothing, and he smells of smoke and sweat. He’s kneeling on the bed in a sort of half-feral crouch and barely seems to hear Hannibal’s words. 

“When have you ever been safe?” It’s practically a growl. “I think we passed ‘safe’ a few exits ago. I need you to tell me something.”

And that’s it. Hannibal’s in. Whatever Will needs, he’s here to provide. He tries to touch Will, to gentle him, and finds him trembling. “Tell me what you need.”

“Tell me what you would do. If I let you go right now. If you weren’t my creature anymore.”

The moment hangs between them. Hannibal considers pointing out that at this point, even if Will releases him from their bargain, he can’t see how he will ever be anything but Will’s creature, ever again. But Will isn’t in any state for philosophical conversation about the nature of love between monsters.

He pulls Will down next to him, kisses him hard, finds him all teeth and hands and responds in kind. “You know what I’ll do. I’ll find someone. I have some ideas but I’m open to your suggestions. I don’t think it would do to get too fancy with this first one. I’m out of practice. I’ll do it quickly. Shall I go on?”

Hannibal pulls back for a moment and finds an answer in Will’s face and sped-up breath. He slides one hand under Will’s shirt, starts to skin him slowly out of his clothes while he talks, voice steady and calming as he can make it given the situation. It’s not easy, but Hannibal is very good at self-control.

“I’ll go on, then. As I said, I think it would be quick the first time. And quiet. I’ve always thought it was a shame that the big kitchen knife doesn’t get much use. That one, maybe. I’ll bring the heart home to you.” He’s whispering now, directly into Will’s ear, hands roaming, handling the last of the clothing situation. “I’ll slice it very thin and cook it very rare - practically raw. I might make an exception to the rules and let you eat it in bed. I might feed you myself. You’ll feel like you’re eating my heart from my bare hands. There may be blood. Will you like it?”

Will’s just about past words at this point, incoherent from a potent combination of the high he brought into the room from whatever he’s been out doing, and what Hannibal is doing to him now with words and hands and teeth. If Hannibal were kind he would not press this point. But he’s not kind. 

He scrapes a thumbnail down Will’s back, hard, a focusing hit of pain. “Will. Pay attention. Quid pro quo. Tell me if you’ll like it when I feed you my heart.”

Will makes a helpless, desperate little sound that nearly destroys Hannibal, but he comes back enough to form words. “Yes. You know I will. I’m not playing the damn game, Hannibal. I found him. She figured out the pattern and I went to look and we were right. I don’t know what to do. Thought it was a game but it’s not. He’s good. They’re not going to find him. We could…” He shakes his head, hard, a motion Hannibal recognizes as Will trying to get rid of a thought he’d rather not acknowledge. “Oh, god, Hannibal. I can’t think. What he does to them. Make me not think.”

None of that made much sense to Hannibal and he’d like to follow Will’s thoughts, to know where he’s been tonight. He senses it’s important. But Will in his bed is always tempting, and Will needing him this badly is irresistible. He lowers his head and trails his mouth along the curve of Will’s jaw, feeling how tight the muscles are clenched there. “You don’t have to think, Will. You don’t have to release me tonight. I’m still your creature. Let go. You can eat my heart another day.” 

Will shudders and reaches out blindly. Hannibal pulls him closer and sets about methodically destroying every thought that Will Graham might possibly have about anything other than him. They fall together.


	9. Chapter 9

Will returns to consciousness aware that he’s kicked blankets off during the night and is sprawled naked across the bed, and aware of rustling in the room. Hannibal’s getting dressed; it’s a lecture day and he’s due at the university. With his eyes shut tight, Will can imagine the scene. Hannibal composed and safe within the armor of his suit, Will stripped and semi-conscious alone in the big bed, vulnerable skin marked with scratches and scars. He imagines this may end up in a sketchbook before long.

The thought sends a jolt of heat through him and he worries that he’s given himself away. Although he can't remember whether blushes are a whole-body phenomenon; perhaps not.

Hannibal either doesn’t realize Will’s woken up or has decided to let him have his pretense. He finishes dressing and leaves the room, makes noises in other parts of the house for a few minutes, and then he’s gone.

Once he’s sure he’s alone Will rolls over to Hannibal’s side of the bed, pulls up the blankets, nestles in to them, and goes to visit Abigail.

She’s pacing by the river, occasionally picking up a rock and tossing it in to watch the fish scatter. When Will arrives she drops her remaining handful of rocks and comes running. “Well? Did we get it right?”

He still doesn’t understand how this part of his memory works. Sometimes Abigail seems to know everything that happens to him, and sometimes she doesn’t. It’s an interesting psychological question and one he’d talk over with his therapist if he weren't sleeping with and occasionally trying to kill his therapist. For now he shelves the question. “You got it right, Abigail. He took another one yesterday.”

“I knew it!” She’s pleased as if she’d solved a particularly difficult problem set and for a moment he can see her as she would have been if she'd lived to grow up. In a college classroom, at an office, investigating a crime scene, incandescent with the pleasure of getting something right. She’d have been very, very good. “Did you follow him? Did you find out who he is?”

Will nods and tells her all about it, the memory hitting him hard. It was a difficult tail; their killer is wary. But he managed it. He wasn't in time to stop the kill, only to watch from the underbrush. There was so much blood, more than he'd seen since Dolarhyde. He could smell it from his hiding place. It drove him half out of his mind and he barely remembers how he got home afterwards.

Abigail listens, rapt and attentive. “So what’s next? Do we play the game again with someone new? Do you call the police?”

This was always the catch of the game, the part he hadn’t allowed himself to think about too hard. “I can’t call the police, Abigail. It’s too dangerous for us. I could maybe leave them clues, but still...dangerous. They'd come looking for their anonymous benefactor.”

“You could go back and handle it yourself. You know the pattern now, you know where he’ll be.”

Somewhere outside the riverbank, Will feels himself burrowing tighter into the bedding. Pressure against his skin has always been grounding. It helps him think. Inside his head, he just stares at the ground. “Hannibal would smell it on me. Or I’d get caught. I’d probably get caught. I lack his years of practice. What’s all this been for if I just gift-wrap myself for the police and get shipped back to Baltimore? I can't go back to life in a cage. I'd kill myself first and I'd get it right this time."

Abigail holds out the next to last alternative to him softly, as if it’s something so delicate the sound of her voice might destroy it. A soap bubble. A teacup. A last hope. “You could just let him go. You solved the puzzle. You win. Go back to your life with Hannibal and forget it ever happened. Find us a new puzzle to solve, if you’re restless. We could go on this way a long time.”

He considers her gift for a moment. It’s a possibility. He can turn his back on what he knows and what he saw last night, and let a killer continue killing. A killer he has no hold over. Eventually someone will put together the same pattern he and Abigail did, and the murders will be ended. He can tell himself he’s not responsible for the additional people who will die in the meanwhile. He can stop reading the paper so he won't see their faces or learn their names. He can try not to wonder if each person he sees on the street might be the next victim he could have saved.

It’s a nice thought and he holds the possibility carefully as long as he can. Finally he lets the soap bubble pop. “No. I guess you know I can’t do that."

Today is one of the days she looks older than her years. She looks sad, and wise. “So there it is, then. Only one choice left. You boxed yourself into a very neat trap, Will.”

“I did have some help," he snaps, suddenly annoyed that she's right. Of course she's right.

“You built most of it so it would fit you perfectly. Hannibal might have slapped a coat of paint on the trap but you set the spring yourself and then walked into the jaws to see what it would feel like when they snapped shut on you."

“When did you get so smart?”

“I was always smart. It was part of why you liked me when I was alive. Will, did you really have to do all this just to let yourself have what you wanted all along? Do you have to make everything hurt so much?”

He squints into the distance, trying to discern whether a rustle in the bushes is the Wendigo or just an errant breeze. Mostly it's an excuse to look away. “I’m not very good at figuring out what I want. Sometimes I have to just do things and then figure out the reason later. Sometimes it gets me into traps. I think that’s part of why you’re still with me. You help explain me to myself.”

“Whatever keeps me alive, I guess. I think it’s time to let yourself out of the trap, though. You’ve rejected all the other options. You should talk to Hannibal tonight. Tell him what you saw. Tell him what you want him to do about it.”

And there it is. He probably knew this was coming from the moment he picked up the first newspaper and read the first headline. Maybe it goes back further, to the moment they hit the water and didn't die. He’s lightheaded with the relief of finally having come to the end of his resistance.

There’s not much else to say after that. He leaves Abigail picking flowers among the trees and returns to the world to find he’s tossed and turned and wrapped himself so tightly in the sheets that he can barely wriggle out of them.

He eventually crawls out of his linen cocoon and takes a shower. He makes some coffee, gets his notebook, and sits out on the balcony. He starts taking careful notes about the killing he saw last night and what might be done to stop it from happening again. His plans require two people. His plans preserve the killer's heart.

He thinks about a line from an old movie he watched once, on one of his insomniac nights when there was nothing else to while away the hours. Something about cats dancing on a hot tin roof, the heat on their paws, their refusal to leap. The victory of such a cat is to stay on the roof as long as he can, not giving in until there are no other options but to jump off the roof or burn.

He’s run out of dance steps. It’s time to jump, again, and see if his monster will catch him. Time to renegotiate the deal.


	10. Coda

Twelve months to the day after Hannibal and Will fall over the cliff's edge together, the bell over the market door jingles, and Pilar looks up from her inventory to see one of her regulars. She recognizes him instantly; it’s the younger of the two men who rent the villa by the river. The scruffy one.

She likes the older one better. He has a charming way with words and absolutely no ability to refuse any new delicacy she may have in stock. This one is a little awkward, harder to engage in conversation, and tends to just buy what he came for and leave without being tempted into anything extra. But she smiles and greets him anyway. They’re both good customers and she considers herself open minded. Love is love, even if in her day men didn’t walk around the neighborhood as wrapped up in each other as those two always seem to be when she sees them together.

Pilar returns to her inventory but keeps half an eye on her customer as he moves around the shop. Unusually for him, he’s got a shopping list, and he’s piling his basket high with things she suspects he doesn’t even know how to pronounce. She’s noticed before that his Spanish is odd; every conversation starts off awkwardly but if she keeps him talking, he eventually slips into the rhythms of a native speaker. It’s as if he’s picking up the language from her as they speak.

The man makes his way to the front counter and hands over both the basket and his shopping bag, already partly filled from earlier purchases. She begins to bag up his selections and pauses when she notices the label on the bottle of wine already in the bag. It’s a very nice bottle, one that probably costs more than everything else he’s buying today put together. “Look at this!” she exclaims. “You must be planning quite a party. What’s the occasion?”

He doesn’t make eye contact, as usual, but he smiles. “It’s sort of a special day. It’s our anniversary. We’re having company for dinner.”

She smiles at him warmly. “Happy anniversary! You know, I see you two together. It’s like no one else exists in the world. It’s hard to find, two people like that.” She waves at his ringless finger. “You ought to ask him to marry you. Or does he ask you?” She’s flustered, briefly. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know how it works with two--”

He seems amused rather than offended. “I think either one can ask. But it's complicated. His ex-wife is sort of still around. Maybe someday. Have to survive tonight first." He must see her confusion because he rushes to add, "The dinner. We haven't had company for dinner in a long time. I don't know why I'm telling you this. I think I might be a little nervous.”

She counts out the change into his hand, then pats his fingers gently as he closes them around the money. “Don’t be nervous, dear. You make a good pair. Things will work out.”

He slips the money into his pocket and steps back from the counter, hefting his grocery bag. Bottles clink softly against each other. He’s out the door with a final jingle of the bell, striding quickly back toward the villa, in a hurry to get back to his dinner preparations. As usual, a few of the neighborhood strays are at his heels. As she watches, he pulls a few treats from a bag in his pocket and shares them around with his tiny pack before setting off again at a brisk clip.

Pilar turns back to her inventory but first she closes her eyes for a moment. She sends up a little prayer that their anniversary dinner, and the situation with the ex-wife, work out. 

Maybe they’ll invite her to the wedding. It’s nice, young people in love.

**Author's Note:**

> (Title courtesy of an earworm from [The_Whelk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Whelk/pseuds/The_Whelk).)
> 
> Come hang out with me at [damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com) if you want.


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